


Pressed Flowers

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: It starts on a morning like any of the dozens before it.It ends on a morning like any of those dozens.Sakura and dogwood.Some things aren't made for keeping.





	Pressed Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WereKem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WereKem/gifts).



> This was written for revenge on @kembrelu for that damn cliffhanger. You know the one. 
> 
> Thanks to @poptartsunlimited for ~~suffering~~ beta'ing.

It starts on a morning like any of the dozens before it. It  _ ends _ on a morning like any of those dozens. Hanzo wakes, warm and slightly sore in all the best ways, with Jesse curled around him. Hanzo's face is pressed up to the swell of Jesse's pec, and the dark hair there tickles his cheek. In his sleep, Jesse shifts and presses closer so that their bodies are flush against each other.  There's a scar above Jesse's right hip that matches one on Hanzo's left where Jesse tried to take a bullet for him. It didn't help much, but Hanzo still harbors a secret thrill when they lie together and it lines up. 

 

He never says as much. That would violate the unspoken agreement between them, an arrangement forged in late, sleepless nights where they met trying to outrun the shadows of their misdeeds. They share space, and breath, and heat, all to drive away that old pain for just a little longer. Under the weight of Jesse's body or staring down at him as he falls apart, Hanzo’s thoughts are safely full of the cowboy and nothing else until morning. 

 

Jesse sighs. There's a subtle ripple in his chest, something Hanzo only feels because he's pressed so close. He makes a note to try and convince McCree to stop smoking again. Perhaps after breakfast. McCree is always more compliant on a full belly, a trick Hanzo has used to his advantage often. 

 

Hanzo pulls himself out of the snare of Jesse’s arms. He smirks to himself as the long, blunt fingers weakly claw at his back, trying to hold him there a little longer. Jesse makes a sound that borders between a keen and a rasp. Hanzo disentangles the grasping limbs and makes his way to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, splashes water on his face, and fixes his hair to something resembling presentable. When he comes back out, Jesse is sitting up, one hand pressed against his breastbone and eyes still closed. 

 

Hanzo doesn’t say anything. He never does. He goes to his closet and pulls out the day’s attire while Jesse hauls himself upright and shuffles into the bathroom. Hanzo hunts down Jesse’s clothes while he’s in there; McCree keeps enough of a constant state of  _ dishabille _ that no one will notice the wrinkles. His closet is full of identical pants and shirts anyway. 

 

A sharp, sudden, hacking cough from the bathroom alarms Hanzo, and he strides to the doorway. 

“McCree?” he asks. The coughing subsides, and he can hear a muttered curse. He moves to open the door.

 

“Water down the wrong pipe,” McCree rasps. “Ugh. Came back up my nose…” 

 

Hanzo chuckles and returns to what he was doing. A few minutes later, McCree strides back out of the bathroom and finds his clothes laid out over the bed. He stares down at them, but Hanzo is already busy preparing his equipment for the day and doesn’t notice the lingering attention. McCree gets dressed and heads for the door. 

“I will see you at practice,” Hanzo says, distracted, concentrating on his gear. 

 

McCree answers with a vague hum. 

  
  


Later, Hanzo will remember that hum and curse himself for not catching it. 

  
  


McCree does not appear at breakfast. This does not surprise anyone; McCree is as likely to wander back to his room and catch another few hours of sleep as he is to make his way to the kitchen and down half a pot of coffee in one go. Hanzo puts a plate aside for him, then regrets it immediately and gives the plate to Hana because he and McCree do not have the sort of relationship where they save food for each other. He would probably go through the rest of his day without realizing anything was wrong if Hana doesn’t accidentally splash syrup on him while she gestures excitedly through a story of her last stream. But she does. 

 

Hanzo goes back to his room, strips off his dirty shirt, and stalks into the bathroom to make sure he gets all of it out of his beard before it dries. As he wipes away the sticky mess, he happens to look down at the trashcan and see flecks of red and pink. His first thought is that perhaps McCree cut himself shaving, but he dismisses that immediately; McCree never shaves in Hanzo’s room. Closer inspection reveals that the color is not tissue, but something worse: 

_ Sakura _ . 

 

There is no way for there to be  _ sakura _ petals in Hanzo’s bathroom except one. Hanzo cups the petals in his hand, fear almost driving him to crush them while paralyzing him at the same time. 

 

“Athena,” he calls out, “where is Agent McCree?” 

 

“I have no active agent by that designation,” she responds. 

 

“What?” His heart races. “Agent McCree - the cowboy, he is this tall” -- he gestures -- “and he smokes and walks around in ridiculous chaps.” 

 

“Jesse McCree resigned as an Overwatch agent forty-five minutes ago.” Athena informs him.

 

“What? He--?” Hanzo is moving without realizing it, storming out and heading down the corridors to Jesse’s room. “How? Why?” 

 

“He tendered his resignation to Winston. He cited his reasoning as concern over his bounty and the negative repercussions his association was drawing to the organization.” 

“That is ridiculous, he never said--” Hanzo lets himself into Jesse’s room, which, he finds, is empty. Spartan in the best of times, what little touches of life once dwelled there are gone. Hanzo backs out and heads for Winston’s office. The  _ sakura _ petals burn in his hand. 

 

“Why did you let him go?” He demands. 

 

“We aren’t in the business of keeping people here against their will,” Winston responds. “And he had a real concern.” 

 

“He is sick! He needs help!” 

 

Winston adjusts his glasses. 

 

“Has he said as much? How do you know?” 

 

Hanzo holds out the blood-splattered blossom. Winston’s eyes go wide. 

 

“Oh. Has he-- do you know who--” 

 

Hanzo shakes his head. 

 

“I just discovered these today.” 

 

“I’ll… see if I can hail him, but…” 

  
  


Winston does not need to continue. Hanzo already knows the likelihood of catching up with an ex-black-ops agent who does not wish to be found. He nods curtly and darts out of the office; Winston has his methods and Hanzo has his own. 

 

For a while, Hanzo has strong luck. McCree did not leave thinking anyone would bother to follow, and does not make overmuch effort in covering his tracks. This changes when he reaches the States again, possibly by the necessity of his bounty. Hanzo is only dimly aware of the distance; his focus is a broken, jagged thing, and it grinds against the inside of his chest like misaligned machinery as he hunts for a man whose head is worth sixty million dollars and whose heart is worth… 

 

Hanzo doesn’t want to think about what his heart is worth. Suddenly faced with the loss of it, he can’t bear to try and calculate it, to simplify it. He can only hope it’s not too late to capture it. 

 

Under a bright blue sky, Hanzo finally catches up with his cowboy. Jesse didn’t make it as far south or west as he would have liked, but he stands straight and tall beneath the dogwood trees. Pink and white petal-like bracts fill the air around him, whipping around his feet as the breeze circles him. 

 

“McCree!” Hanzo shouts, his breath catching in his lungs like too much dust. He spits out dogwood and runs faster. The man on the hill turns to face him. His eyes are dark and blank, his face familiar but wrong at the same time. There’s no fire in him, no light, no  _ life _ . 

 

Hanzo can’t breathe as he stares at the scar: small, neat, and surgical, just below McCree’s throat. He chokes on dogwood flowers and the words they never said. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
